“While I go through the procedures expected of me (pouring milk on cornflakes, complaining about homework, playing a game of catch with my father) I observe, I collect evidence until I become certain: They are all actors — mother, students at school, father, salesmen in stores, bus drivers; crowds walking on the Green or sunbathing…
Where better to worship music than church — sanctuary amid sanctuary? Above us, some incense of desire swirls mindful and apart. Call it a lost bat, circling this quartet as counterpoint, as jazz dissolving their surging measure. At first no one sees the looping presence in the dusky rafters where, other nights, all eyes might…
After vespers, after the first snow has fallen to its squalls, after New Wave, after the anorectics have curled into their geometric forms, after the man with the apparition in his one bad eye has done red things behind the curtain of the lid and sleeps, after the fallout shelter in the elementary school has…
“But where will Marcos go?” It's Bruce Lee, last of the Chieu Hois. Taro reading: the Haoles are losing their pois. The barfed-on offer their excusez-mois Hey hey. Thanks for the memo. Un; deux; trois; Banjoist kotoist jingoist Maoist Hoist, the one-man all-girl hula group gets bois trouser and boistrouser half Piaf half ois eau-lyre…
When her granddaughter, who is the pilot, shouts “Clear!” through the cockpit's open window and the prop begins like the earth to make circles we can't see so we must go on faith the sun will rise again, my mother says from the back seat of the C-182, “You'll have to close that window. I'm…
O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. —Sleep and Poetry My Darling C, There is something to be said for Nature after all, dusk pending, variable stars. I have had a change in luminosity. All winter long,…
Our message to the world. Our Galilean artifact up there. Our pagean try our puffery our paean. Sheer heroism. Sean Connery down mean dering mean ducts. To the perfect Jean Valjean getaway. Through a time-bombed ocean. Our gadgetman our dreamboat our DeLorean doing the bluejean limbo leading the mangroves their cerulean elverings and rean…
You tell me sometimes you sit here for hours. The stone steps curve up under a pine as they did three centuries ago. Below, azaleas rust with frost; above, sun on the topmost needles shines like the coming snow. And then the path disappears behind three hedges, maples a mottle of red and gold, a…
1949. I am already six years old and no stranger to adversity when my mother shakes me awake one September morning and tells me we are leaving Los Alamos and moving to Santa. Fe. Instinctively, I sniff her breath for liquor. But there is only the sour musk of coffee and, from her armpits, another…
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